I feel as though my dreams could quickly become my nightmares- or my daydreams could turn into dreams- I forget them at the first crack of sun. I feel like I am preparing myself for this nightmare and thus experiencing one at this time. I have a hard time not living in the future. I need to remember the present, but all my tenses speak of past or future.
I enjoy singing at the top of my lungs in my dorm room. I am certain that my entire floor is well aware of my... talent. I enjoy songs that involve whistling, because then I feel like a pro when whistling along, in reality, I can barely call a dog with a whistle.
I am deeply afraid of what Paris will turn into for me, and I shouldn’t even be thinking about it because when I think, I speak and which is turn turns into THEATRE. Dramatics and such. I have studied Moliere and have no wish to participate. I would rather hang the curtains around my body, or hang from the curtains.
I wonder if we have outgrown ourselves. I wonder if our bodies will feel like we have growing pains. I remember thinking about myself as mysterious whereas now I am tired and so sarcastic.
That sarcasm is sweet of course. These days no one can tell the difference and my sincerity comes across with peals of laughter.
I rub my Labradorite, because it is said to “dispel depression and negativity.. light in darkness” and there could not be any other moments. I listen to songs on the radio that speak of hope in love. I wonder about purchasing plane tickets to the Czech republic. I check my pulse periodically and feel like both crying and displaying no emotion. I lose my appetite and drink liters of chamomile tea, I take long walks in order to smoke and listen to music that will create a new sense of the streets that surround me. I think about how I have developed a hatred of many cities I have failed to visit which leads to my failure in understanding. Sometimes I wonder if I understand all too well and that is why I am depressed. I am taking the shape of the birds with their frantic calls and I wonder if they understand- I wonder if they too are missing far away mates who don’t sing back. Or perhaps they do and they just don’t believe.
I want to believe in everything but my philosophical doubts stand in the way- reality takes away the heaven and I am like a spoiled Reblochon- a cheese I have never tasted. I believe in old Slovak superstition that says when you sneeze whatever you were thinking was true. I use these sneezes as a prediction and when I feel a sneeze coming on I change my thoughts and am deeply satisfied in my misery to find out its true.
I worry like an old woman and I worry about the lines showing my age. I worry about location and time.